


Don't you have a date? (or the Hair Ball War that ended in disaster)

by icouldhavedroppedmyscone



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fights, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Unrequited Love, but it's not baz :(, significant angst, simon's got a DAAATTTTEEEE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icouldhavedroppedmyscone/pseuds/icouldhavedroppedmyscone
Summary: "Simon is going on a date.I know this because he is standing in front of the mirror, raking a comb through his hair while trying to button up a blue dress shirt and roll on a sock with only his foot. "





	1. A hillbilly and a hollywood vampire

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! HAPPY PRIDE FOR ALL MY AUSTRALIAN BUDDIES! YES! LIFT A CHEER!  
> Not the happiest fic for such a happy day in history, but here it is anyway :) Hope you like!

Simon is going on a date. 

I know this because he is standing in front of the mirror, raking a comb through his hair while trying to button up a blue dress shirt and roll on a sock with only his foot. 

Needless to say, none of the three are successful. 

Eventually he gives up trying to wrangle his hair and leaves the comb tangled on the side of his head. He abandons the sock as well and continues to button up his dress shirt, before realising it’s done up all wrong and with a cry of anguish, landing on the floor with a thump.

He looks up at me. I open my mouth to speak. ‘Shut up,’ he says, face bright with frustration. I close my mouth. 

He turns back to the mirror. ‘I look like a mess,’ he says with a sigh.

The air hangs heavy. It tends to do that when Simon is sad.

‘Well, extracting that bloody comb from your hair might be a start,’ I raise an eyebrow and cross my legs over on my desk. I smile fondly at the back of his head.

He flushes and glances at me in the mirror. I reassemble my face into something more acceptable.

With a considerable amount of effort, detangles the comb from his hair and places it on the carpet beside him. 

I glare at the hairy comb where it lies on the floor with my trademark look of distain. I may or may not practice this in the mirror after my morning shower, when my hair is at its most Hollywood Vampire. ‘Snow, take that dastardly thing off the carpet!’ I scold, swinging around on my seat to face him and barely restraining myself from shaking my fist at him. He picks it up, looks around and then looks at me blankly. ‘Lords, Snow, are you waiting for a smoke signal?’ I thwack my head into the desk and sigh.

‘Give me strength,’ I mutter into the wood.

He picks it up again and with a wicked grin stretching across his face, he pulls the matted hair off the comb, balls it in his hands and throws it at me.

I leap onto my chair and slimly dodge the hairy missile as it makes its merry way through the air. It lands on my desk with a whoosh. I look down at where it sits in a shameful lump and blink, before whipping my head around to face him, ‘Heathen!’ I yell furiously, shaking my fist for real now. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’ With two fingers, I pick it up gingerly and piff it back at him, chortling ungracefully when it gets him right in the face. 

And so begin the Hair Ball Wars.

The offending ball of hair is launched backwards and forwards a few more times, until we’re both standing on our beds, facing one another. Snow has the hairball in his hand and with a roguish smirk, he takes his arm backwards and flings it at me with a whoop, at which I duck and roll over the bedpost, thumping down in an unsophisticated heap on the floor.

He lets out a short laugh and flops down beside me at the end of me bed. ‘You ok?’ he pants, turning over to look at me. I groan in response. He laughs again and turns his head towards back up towards the ceiling. ‘Who’d have thought you and me could have so much fun, huh?’ He grins, two red spots warming his cheeks like a cartoon character in the snow. I grunt and reassemble my limbs into a shape that looks vaguely human. I wipe my brow and run a hand through my hair. ‘Yeah,’ I say, voice laden with sarcasm, ‘Who’d a thunk it.’

He laughs beside me and a smile warms my mouth. I glance over at him and almost quit breathing. His blue eyes are bright and shining, his freckled skin flushed and blazing. There’s still a hint of laughter on his lips. Gorgeous. He catches me looking and I flick my eyes back to the ground. After a moment, I turn back to him and frown. ‘Snow, don’t you have a date?’ 

Simon’s mouth falls open and he stares at me in shock, before scrambling up and dashing over to where his sock lies abandoned on the ground. ‘Shit, I forgot!’ He yells back over his shoulder, desperately pulling on his other sock and running around hunched over looking for his shoes on the ground like some kind of razzed-up baboon. ‘Watch out!’ I yell half-heartedly, before he slams his head straight into the side of the bed. He crumples, rubs his head for a minute, then reaches under the bed and starts to pull on his flaking black school shoes. He stops and glances at his watch. ‘Shit, I gotta be down there in five.’ 

I watch him as he runs back and forth across the room like the roadrunner on steroids. ‘Who is this unlucky lady anyway, Snow?’ I call as nonchalantly as possible, drinking in his hair, the collarbone at his open shirt, his freckled arms. ‘Not a girl.’ He yells back.

I almost faint on the spot. Then I remember that either way, it’s a date we’re talking about. ‘Ho ho,’ I chuckle, ‘And what’s the Mage got to say about this one?’ I raise a dark eyebrow and tap my fingers together, like a villain from a black and white film.

‘Fuck the Mage,’ he mumbles as he rights the last button on his shirt. I grin even more at that answer, ‘Do I smell a whiff of belated teen rebellion there, Mr Snow? A futile escapade, but an interesting twist.’ At this he turns away from the mirror and frowns at me.

‘Why is it futile?’ I continue to smirk. ‘What, you think my relationship’s not going to work?’ He crosses his arms and raises his chin defiantly. I scramble to my feet and face him back, using my extra height as leverage over him. ‘Look at you, Snow,’ I sneer, at last feeling the full weight of this DATE, ‘You’re just a lonely little child playing dress ups.’ Simon looks away and I shift my feet, trying to keep my stance. The air between us buzzes and I feel the weight of something big to come. ‘You asshole,’ he whispers in an angry breath. I cock my head and snarl at him. ‘What was that, Snow?’ He lifts eyes up to meet mine, balling his fists at his sides, ‘You ASSHOLE!’ he yells, face getting redder by the minute. 

I’m biting back everything I want to say. At least, when he was dating girls, I knew that he COULDN'T want me like that. It’s a stab to the chest to know that the real reason is, however much I knew it before and however much I deserve it, that he just doesn't. want. me. ‘Don’t get too worked-up, Snow,’ I jeer, ‘Don’t wanna ruin that pretty face for your big date.’ 

He’s full on crying now and he’s aggressively wringing out his hands like if he does it enough, he might finally be rid of me. ‘WHY ARE YOU BEING SO HORRIBLE?!’ he screams at me across the room. I pause. He's panting and crying and looking at me like I'm supposed to answer. I sit down and rest my back against the bed frame. His eyes follow me the whole way.

‘What's his name?’ I say quietly. He stops still like a brick wall has sprung up in front of him and he’s slammed straight into it. We stare each other down from our opposite sides of the room. After a moment, he wipes his eyes and picks up his wallet. He stumbles to the door and looks back at me. I stare at him in all his rumpled up, miserable glory. ‘Hayden,’ he whispers, then opens the door and turns back to look at me. I shift my eyes to the ground and motion at the door, 'Have fun,' I say. He nods and closes it quietly shut behind him.

Baz looks up at the ceiling and blows out a long breath.

Simon leans back carefully against the door.

Shit.


	2. A turn for the alcoholic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol has magical relationship mending qualities. Apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I know, I know, where the hell have you been for the last three months? Let's just say that VCE (I don't know what you non-victorians call it, the last two years of school?) is kicking my ass. It's finally school holidays so that's why I have arisen. I feel like I kind of wrote myself into a corner as well. Anyway, hope you like (I know it's short) :)

When I finally arrive at the door to our room, I fumble with the key, trip over the threshold then slump back against the door, thudding my head against the wood. 

Baz is sitting at his desk, a textbook laid out in front of him and a highlighter perched between his fingers. He lifts his head briefly when I walk in, but then double takes and turns to face me.

He takes in the mud on the bottom of my pants, my untucked shirt and the wet curls plastered to my forehead. And he laughs. 

His laugh is low and hearty, a single syllable. I stare at him incredulously. With another warm laugh, he shakes his head.

It’s a really nice sound. He’s leaning forward, his cheeks are a little flushed and his dark hair is falling into his eyes. It makes something churn in the pit of my stomach. It makes something settle there too. It’s been a long night, a seriously long night and although this is not the reception I was expecting, it feels... pretty good. 

He reaches across his desk and picks up a bottle. When he looks up at me again, he smiles a bright, warm smile and tosses the bottle over to me. I catch it, pull the cork out and smell it. Yep. 

I stand there for a moment, bottle in hand and stare at him. He pushes back and forth on his desk chair and raises an eyebrow. I continue to stare and he rolls his eyes. ‘If you don’t want it, chuck it back.’

I glare at him, then I glare at the bottle, then I glare back at him again. ‘You want us to what,’ I motion wildly with my hands, ‘drink together?’

‘Do you want it or not?’ he sighs.

I look down at the bottle. After a moment, I set the cork down on my desk and take a swig. Not too bad. Trust Baz to stash expensive alcohol in our room. His eyes follow me as I plop down between our beds and take another swig. I look up at him and he searches my eyes. I feign a sigh and pat the floor in front of me. ‘Well, we’ve only got all night,’ I chuckle, and smile as he settles himself across from me and takes the bottle from my hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time :)


End file.
